


Dysmorphia

by Lunar_Iris



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Lots of OCs - Freeform, M/M, Magic, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Surgery, UKUS, some body horror
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:23:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 10,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27143099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lunar_Iris/pseuds/Lunar_Iris
Summary: America is kidnapped by a crazed scientist. England, with the help of several other nations and the use of very powerful magic, must save him. But have they saved him in time?Title may change. Rating may change. Chapter lengths will vary.
Relationships: America/England (Hetalia)
Comments: 38
Kudos: 47





	1. 22 April, 2035 hours

America drove the back road toward his private hangar as it could have been a quick trip to the nearest fast-food joint. The black SUV started following him not a mile from his home in Virginia when he switched to his aviator frames—the only way to fly. Same old game. 

America did not know who exactly was following him or why, and he did not take the time to think about it at first. He was used to strange black vehicles following him to his plane when he took off for random visits with England, but this had an official world meeting attached to it. He hadn’t even done anything. Recently. He had gone into the office to work regularly the past few months—unless he was visiting England. His boss should be thankful. His secretary, Cynthia, or was her name Mindy—he couldn’t remember—should have been thrilled to see him. Everyone always was. He always brought donuts.

He turned the radio off so he could concentrate. Car chases were fun. Car chases on poorly paved country roads were serious business. America dug around in the console of his truck and pulled out the entry gate and hangar door remote controls He didn’t take his eyes off guard between the road ahead and the dark vehicle behind him. It was still there keeping a consistent distance. There were no other cars on the road. Wow were they dumb, he thought.

The owner of the small airstrip had informed him that there would only be a random attendant after sunset, mostly there to look after Stanley’s pregnant cow. That was fine with America. If it were Dean, he would likely be more than half-asleep by now. He had a new tractor delivered to the farmer for taking such good care of his Angel. The Secret Service had yet to catch him at the hanger itself.

The console still open, he took the precaution of retrieving a pistol and slipped it in the right pocket of his bomber jacket. Can never be too careful.

When both vehicles passed the last street light, the vehicle following him increased its speed.

“Okay, Agent Asshole.” America glanced in the rear-view mirror, increasing his speed in turn. “What’re you coming after me for now?” The dark SUV sped up with him. Whoever that agent was, they were being unusually aggressive.

“Fuck you.” He refocused his attention back to the narrow country road, watching the line of trees on his right. “Ha! Watch this dickhead.” He shifted gears and pulled off the road, bouncing across a shallow ditch and drove into an opening in the trees.

A quarter mile or so in the woods, America cut the motor, and rolled down the window. Nothing. He couldn’t hear a sound other than the soft wind of the beautiful, mid-spring night. Still, he opened door and slid out of his truck, holding the pistol at the ready. Nothing. He lowered the gun and scanned the underbrush and trees around him. Nothing at all.

“Heh,” he sighed and got back into his truck, tucking the pistol back into his pocket. “Chickens the lot of ‘em.” Sometimes the agents his government sent were rather wishy-washy. They had not won, but neither had he, quite yet. Not until he was in the sky. He hated pulling guns on them, but apparently, bullet holes in vehicles and blown tires went over better than torn tendons and broken bones. He cranked the engine back into life and headed farther into the woods, following one of a dozen paths that he had long since formed and memorized. He could only chuckle at them, and his boss.


	2. 22 April; 2055 hours

America rounded the back of the hill on the wooded path. It took an extra half hour or so this way, but he had years of experience know that a little caution went a long way. He had this private hanger since he had his first plane, and he was just as glad he had it now as he was during the Cold War. America was especially glad that he had it a couple months prior when he had headed to England for Valentine’s day against his boss’s wishes.

The metal building came into view in the distance atop a broad hill along Stanley’s field. Before America pulled the truck into his hangar, he had his bags hoisted up on the seat next to him, his cell phone in his jacket pocket, everything at the ready. He jumped out of the truck, gear for the next week in tow and dashed for his plane, Angel. Setting his luggage just inside the plane’s cockpit, he got a clipboard-checklist and made to prepare his plane. There were other things were best left to caution as well, like flying airplanes. If America were honest with himself, he was paranoid that he would run out of gas halfway across the Atlantic Ocean and never be heard from again. England would not like that. He could only do so much as the world’s hero, and his superpower was not the ability to fly.

Satisfied that he had taken care of his pre-take-off checklist, America hung it back on its peg and turned back to the plane. A stray sound coinciding with the pivot of his foot echoed through the metal building. He held his breath, fighting the urge to look around. He feinted a step forward. He heard it again, a shuffle just to his left. He turned his head. Nothing. He took another set forward and feinted a second. There it was again—the echo of a footstep. He glanced around. All the windows and other doors shut tight. Only the hangar door was still open, and its remote was already stowed in the plane with the rest of his things except the gun and his cell phone in his pockets. America took a few steps toward the plane and paused at the ladder; one foot poised on the first step. Another shuffle.

He already had his gun out, cocked, and ready to aim before he turned around. The figure standing before him—black suited with her blonde hair pulled back and up into a hat—remained expressionless. “Wait. You’re not Secret Service.” His eyes widened. “Who are you? What the hell are you doing here?”

“Never mind, Mr. Jones.” She remained motionless and she had no gun, but her attentive gaze was trained on his face. “You will come with me.” If it was not for her accent, he might have thought she was Russian.

“How do you know me?” His aim between her eyes remained steady.

“That’s not important.” Her accent was not foreign, but she certainly was not a local.

“Sure it is. This is a private hangar on private property.” He squared his shoulders, adding to his height. They must be nearly the same height. “And I don’t know you.”

“Not of my concern.” She didn’t talk much, and just stood there as though he was nothing. It was insulting, really. “It would be better if you came with me willingly.”

“You make no sense.”

America shifted his weight, his fingers tightening on his gun. He had to get out of this and dash off to England. “It’s plenty of mine though. I’ve places to go, people to see, ya know?” He smirked. “You’re from Maryland, right?” He raised the gun back to the spot between her eyes.

“H-how do you know that?” 

America’s smirk grew and shook his head. “Nope. Now, I’ll be late for a very important date. You have no idea.” She had no idea of England’s vehement insistence on punctuality. “The Piedmont,” he said with a chuckle.

She scowled. “Enough of this Mr. Jones!”

“Capitol region.” America shifted back toward the ladder. She could have attacked already and thrown him off balance with ease, but she just kept staring. Did she even like what she saw? He could have been a specimen in a cage for all the concern she expressed. So far, the only thing that seemed to make her uneasy was his where-do-you-live guessing game that he liked to play with his citizens. He usually intended it to be something completely harmless; although, he guessed it could be rather unnerving if the other party did not know what he was doing, how and why.

“I guess you don’t, but you’ll be coming with me whether you like it or not. Your willingness was never part of the equation.” And that was enough. Seriously what was up with this lady? This was quickly turning into a scene from a bad spy flick.

“Hmmm.” America’s head cocked to the side. “Montgomery County. Sorry, Ms. Clark, this has been a fun game. But I really have to go now.”

“H-how do you know my name?”

He shrugged. “Just something that I do, Agnes.”

“Enough of this game! My boss is not a patient person, and neither am I.” She reached forward, a movement that emphasized the fact she was taller than he was. That was just wrong.

America dove forward and lunged at her knees, sending her torso flying forward and lower body back with him. He kept a firm grip on his gun and fired at her thigh, and then looped the gun around, tossing it to his other hand. He butted the handle against her skull. She fell limp on top of him, stunned, but still conscious.

He had just reached around her legs to hoist her up with him when another hand, broad and masculine, reached around his head and pressed a cloth over his mouth and nose. It smelled sweet. He thrashed against the slight grip of the man. He seemed a bit burly, nothing for him. But the hangar lurched left then right and waved, and his vision peppered with silvery dots. Chloroform.

“The doctor wanted him brought unscathed,” Agnes said from outside the fog in his head.

“And so he is,” the man said. “Pick him up, Hank.

That was way too fast. How did that even happen? Where did that other guy come from?

England was going to kill him for missing his birthday, America thought as his world was reduced to blackness.


	3. 23 April; 1200 hours

America should have arrived hours ago. He had phoned at noon the previous day and they discussed plans for lunch. England fidgeted in his seat in the waiting room of the small hangar rented for America’s plane. He didn’t want to risk calling America mid-flight; he usually had it switched off. Still, England pulled out his mobile phone and pushed the speed dial number for America’s phone anyway. It rang, and rang, and rang, and rang. And then, he was directed to voicemail.

“Alfred, what the bloody hell is keeping you? Where are you? Please call me back straight away. You git.” But, he only added the slight as an afterthought.

America’s phone was on. He could not be in flight.

England pocketed his mobile and pushed his heavy limbs up from the hard-padded seat cushion. His eyes wandered up to the mostly cloudy skies, lingering at the blue that lay beyond them. He walked outside onto the tarmac and lost himself in the depth of the blue sky always mirrored in Alfred’s eyes. Arthur hoped he really was up there somewhere. 

“Where are you, love?”


	4. 23 April; late afternoon

America’s eyes cracked open, but the world around him was still all dark, and he was jostled as though he were resting on a rumbling clothes dryer. He attempted to brace himself against the next bone jarring impact to no avail. Laying on his side with his arms and legs bound with industrial strength steel cables, there was no possibility that he could prise his way out of the bindings. Not from his current position on the floor. 

This was probably the same SUV that had followed him the previous night. It was not night any more. He could feel the warmth of the sunlight shining through the windows onto his cheek and shoulder. America’s hands were numb behind him, and the skin of his wrists stung.

Mountains. No, not quite. They were still in the Piedmont; he could tell by the smell of the trees. What a crummy road!

“Can it, Hank. We’re not stopping to eat.” A voice grumbled. With his head a jumble of pain and the blindfold partially covering his ears he could not tell of it was the testy brunette from the previous night or someone else.

Another jolt lifted America from the floor of the vehicle, just far enough to allow him to tell that his bonds were tethered to something solid inside the vehicle’s interior. He let out a grunt he landed on his shoulder and hip. The same side that Agnes had landed on the night before and upon which he had landed many times in the vehicle as it lurched along.

“He’s waking again Ms. Agnes.”

“Then sedate him again, you idiot. I just hope we don’t run out before we get him there.” So, that had been Agnes Clark. Funny though, he didn’t remember stirring before that bump in the road. Were there any others besides just the two? 

“Don’t think that’ll happen.”

America attempted to shuffle his limbs against his bounds, testing their strength, and his own. He calculated: his body angle and relative pain index, combined with the irregular jostling might allow him to separate a few of the metal strands. Nope.

“He’s fidgety!” Hank called out, just above him.

“Then give him extra,” she bellowed again.

“Maybe we shouldn’t have stayed the night in that town.”

“I had no choice remember?”

“Yeah, I know but...”

“No, buts just get the kid back to sleep.”

America felt the sweet, soft cloth against his nose again. He felt a vague buzzing sensation underneath him before he was again lost to drugged oblivion.


	5. 24 April

**24 April; 0945 hours**

America had not missed a meeting in... The nations discussed this at length and could not determine the last time he had missed a World Meeting or any other conference. He attended them when ill and spread colds. They spent nearly an hour of the time scheduled for the International Space Station on listing possible reasons for his absence, not that they could discuss the topic in great depth without him. Russia would not let them out of so-called sentimental reasons that the rest of them dare not question.

Russia stared down his notes, his mouth downturned in an atypical frown. “It is just not right discussing without that space obsessed idiot,” Russia was saying as the conference room door flew open. 

“Oh, sorry I’m late.” Canada huffed as he closed the door and made his way toward his sat. “Wait. America isn’t here?”

France frowned. “You have not seen him?”

Canada paused. His eyes darted between England and France.

Japan hummed. “It is very unlike America to miss the chance to speak about outer space.”

The nations’ muttering resumed. Some arguing that their meeting should not hedge upon the presence or absence of a single nations. Others pointed out that this was not a pre-announced absence.

The debate was reduced to a distant buzz to England as he stared at America’s empty seat. He sat in his chair, knuckles white around his mug of tea that had gone cold during the resulting squabble. He had not heard from America in days. Yesterday, when he spoke to the latest secretary assigned to the insufferable twat, she informed him that their “private meeting” was rescheduled and not to call over her head, please, because he wouldn’t get more information from elsewhere until word came from the top. She had told him that it probably would not be for several months. Whatever the bloody hell that was supposed to mean, he hadn’t a clue, but had tried America’s mobile phone again and the phone numbers of each one of America’s homes that he could remember. It was as though Alfred had disappeared off the face of the earth. He read the papers, watched the news. Nothing was amiss in the United States of America. No, something was amiss with Alfred.

A firm hand on his arm brought England from his thoughts. “England? You have not said a word since the meeting began? Do you know the whereabouts of America?”

“No.” He stared into darkness of his tea. “I haven’t a fucking clue were that bloody stupid fool is.” England rose from his chair and grabbed his belongings. He had briefly remembered hoping his answer wasn’t as disconsolate it seemed, but he could not care less.

“Surely, America would have giving word to you of all people.” The last words he heard before he slammed the door of the conference room behind him were in relatively unaccented English, but he couldn’t recall who said them. Because, surely of all people America would have let him know why he never even showed up on his birthday without any word at all.

**24 April; 1600 hours**

England had called America’s secretary again, America’s mobile phone and all his house numbers he could remember. For the third time. The secretary had threatened to ask the president to tell on him to his boss for bothering America.

“My calls have been of no bother to anyone before, particularly Alfred.” He ended the call and barely resisted tossing the phone across the room.

What the hell was going on?

**24 April; 2345 hours**

It did not occur to England that the secretary herself had sounded panicked until he was halfway into a bottle of rum. He put the bottle away and switched on the electric kettle instead. There would be no sleep for England that night. It would be the first of many.


	6. 25 April, 0200

25 April; 0200

America awoke naturally from a dreamless sleep, no longer blindfolded. Though the ground no longer moved under him his limbs weighed him down to the bed. Despite the stiffness in his limbs and disorientation looping around his brain even with his eyes closed, he forced himself to shift.

Owie! His head still throbbed. He burrowed deeper into the bed. It was still dark. What time was it anyway?

Wait? Bed?!

It was all a dream?

He rolled his head over on the down pillow, propping himself up on an elbow, and gave an experimental nudge to the mattress. The nice, soft bedding smelled of lavender, and the large mattress was plush and comfortable.

Gingerly, he opened his eyes and sat up on the bed, looked around the room, bones cracking, and muscles straining as he did. He could bare distinguish the walls in the dim glow of moon light through the window on the other side of the small room and he could not see a door. He set his feet on the floor, the tiles were cold under his bare feet, and he took a moment to balance his weight before he rose and shuffled over to the window, cautious and hesitant. Both his right side and shoulder maintained extensive bruising from the jarring ride to wherever he was now. His ankle hurt, too.

It was not a dream. What kind of abduction was this?

He glanced out the window—bars were inside and outside. He was high up somewhere in the Blue Ridge Mountains. There were so many trees dotting the ledges below him that he could not quite identify the exact region.

America rubbed his arms to ward off a chill that came from the inside and realized he was not wearing the same clothing as the last time he was fully conscious: cotton plaid pyjamas. Weird. He wasn’t sure if he actually owned any. Probably he had an odd pair or two in a dresser, a gift from England, but he didn’t wear them. These were cosy and had a cool blue and green checkedy pattern.

He sighed, taking another step toward the window, and leaned against the sill. “Ouch!” America stepped back and rubbed his side.

“Yes, Mr. Jones. All the walls and the windowsill carry an electrical charge. I would not advise you not to do that again.” Agnes Clark spoke silhouetted in a doorway that he swore was there before.

He spun around to face her, hands gripping the hem of the pyjama shirt. “Where are my clothes?” That had not been what he wanted to ask! Her sudden appearance sent spinning his already sleep drowsy and jumbled thoughts. 

“Not the first question I expected.” She smirked.

“Well, I still want to know.” Yes, he did, and there a great many other things he had wanted to know and meant to ask first. He could just kick himself but would stick to his guns. Maybe the question threw her off as much as it did him—he could work with that—even though she did not seem very fazed.

“I mean I expected you to ask—perhaps— ‘why am I here’ or ‘where am I’ or even ‘what are you planning for me.’” She taunted. Agnes took another step inside the room; the door closed behind her and she flicked on the light. It was dim, but still he squinted his eyes. “You are a strange one, Mr. Jones.”

“Whatever!” he sulked. He squinted his eyes hoping and looked down to the floor, hoping it would serve as a display of discontent. She was a fuzzy blur on the other side of the dim room without his glasses and his head ached.

“You’ll have to take that issue up when Ace comes for you?”

“Who’s Ace?” he asked.

“You’ll find out. Probably like you found out about the walls.” She smiled again, amused and needling. 

Between her condescension and his headache, he let out a long, unrestrained growl. “What the hell do you people want with me? Do you want money?” He paused, his breath catching in his throat. “Are you terrorists?” His boss and the government would probably anticipate him to be able to get out of most situations he got himself into on his own by virtue of who he was. Although, he was sure any terrorists would want a pretty penny for his head, if they knew of his importance.

Agnes’s smile softened and she shook her head. It was creepy, but soothing, the way her eyes crinkled at the edges and softened in contrast with her crisp black suit, opened white lab coat and dark hair, pulled into a clip at the nape of her neck. “We are definitely not terrorists. You will find out soon enough what we want with you. For now, Mr. Jones-- Wait.” She crossed the room to stand in front of him and examined his face and arms in the dim moonlight. “You must have a nasty headache.” He inwardly congratulated her on her statement of the obvious but refused to admit it openly. “You look miserable. There are a variety of pain relievers in the medicine cabinet beside the washroom sink.”

Washroom sink? He looked around but the room was still a blur. “I don’t wanna take any medicine!” Smooth Alfred. He tried not to cringe. “What time is it?” Again, not what he wanted to ask.

“I suggest you go back to bed, Mr. Jones. It’s just past two thirty in the morning.” She took him gently by the shoulders and led him back toward the bed.

“What day?” he tried to back away from her sudden coddling. 

“April twenty-fifth.” She released him without the argument that he had expected and limped back over to the door. She appeared to be unused to it because she winced when she turned back to him. “I must be going.” It opened on its own, sliding into the wall like an automated door from Star Trek, to an empty hallway. “Good night Mr. Jones.” She stepped through it and was gone.

He gave a fleeting thought about technology up on the mountains in the middle of nowhere as he glanced around the room once more. Still dark. Apart from the door and the walls, everything else in the room seemed mundane, even ordinary: some furniture, and other shapes in the gloom, but he could not quite distinguish the sink.

America was trapped. At the mercy of these strange people with no contact with any one from the outside. They had certainly taken away his cell phone with his pants and bomber jacket. The effort it took to stand was enough for now, he did not feel he had the energy to search the room.

It was warm, so he shed the pyjama top. He shuffled back into the bed and shimmied underneath the covers, careful of his bruises and aching head. Half his body still felt sore.

He flopped onto his back and stared at the room. Everything around him was metal. Walls, ceiling, windowsills, door. What the hell? He could be reasoned with if someone would actually talk to him. And he might be lax when reading the atmosphere, but something peculiar was going on in that mountain. He was asleep before he could attempt to develop any ideas of what it might be.


	7. 25 April, 0900

**25 April, 0900 hours**

_“England! England!” A voice screamed out to him as England watched America plummet into the waters of the Atlantic Ocean. It sounded muted as though it was far away._

A gentle hand nudged England’s shoulder, and he shuttered awake. “Arthur!” A soft voice called out to him.

“Hurgh!” England rolled over to toward the sound of Canada’s voice, head still on the pillow. “Al-Alfred?”

“That’s just it. America isn’t --” Canada was interrupted as England surged up in bed.

England blinked his eyes open, seeing bright blonde hair and blue eyes behind glasses among the pinpoints of white and black flecks, and threw himself forward. “Oh my god, America! I dreamed you...that you! Oh god, it was terrible!”

Firm hands gripped his shoulders and pushed him back. “I’m Matthew. You know, Canada.”

England’s forced his eyes to focus, and the heat in his cheeks to fade. The eyes staring at him in frustration and concern were a bit darker than Alfred’s sky blue. He swallowed hard and collapsed back into the bed, rubbing at his eyes to dispel the moisture that had built up behind his lids. Oh, god his hangover had left him with a nearly debilitating headache. He felt numb and cold and twitchy.

“I-I’m sorry, Canada,” he rasped. 

“So, you’ve heard no word from America, either?” Canada sat down at the end of the bed.

“Nothing at all.” He growled. “I cannot get anyone in D.C. to tell me a fucking thing.”

“I’ve tried too.”

“Thank you, lad.” He cleared his throat and reclined against the headboard. “How did you get in?”

“I slipped in with room service, told the guy I was staying here too. Sorry.” He offered a sheepish, apologetic smile. “The three of...Uh, we were supposed to meet for breakfast this morning.”

“Yes, that’s right.” England sighed. “I had forgotten. I’m sorry.”

“And I was the only one in the café at 8:30, so I figured I’d make other arrangements. I had breakfast brought up.”

“I appreciate that.” England glanced up through the sweat dampened hair hanging on his forehead but made no move to rise from the bed.

“I know.” Canada’s expression wilted, but he turned away to spread out the breakfast dishes, preventing him from further examining his emotions. “I’m worried too.”

“I’m not worried. Of course, I’m not.” With an unnatural jolt, England pushed himself out of the bed and shook the sleep in his limbs to join Canada. “That twat can take care of himself, no doubt.”

“Hm. Right.” Canada continued to organize the breakfast spread, hoping that England would not press him further for his opinion on America.

\------------

**25 April, Time Unknown**

With stinging pain in and between his shoulders, America stirred from a deep sleep. He fluttered his eyes and tried to move. His limbs felt heavy, as though they were held down with weights. Any attempt at moving his arms was unsuccessful, and sent the pain rushing up to his head and down through his spine.

He last remembered falling asleep staring at the freaky metal ceiling. How could he be looking at a metal floor now?

_Beep, beep, Beep, beep_

Something sharp dug at his shoulders. Hands smoothed down his back. He was prodded again. Again, he tried to move, and met resistance.

_Beep. Beep BeepbeepbeepBeep_

He heard voices, low and rushed, but could not understand what they were staying. The movements at his back were jerky. He thought he heard some say something about _say date him_... and _healing quicky_ or something like that. He would fight back if staying half-asleep wasn’t so blissful and it didn’t require so much to effort just to breath.

_Beep, beepbeep Beep, beep beep._

The pain started to subside, but he could still feel the motions of the sharp object along his spine.

_Is pearl doery sir jerry complete..._

America took a deep breath; it was uncomfortable and took a few shallow breaths to compensate.

_Prime can did date pound._

He heaved a few more breaths, fighting the growing stupor. He relaxed the muscles in his chest as well as he could and eased back into a deep sleep.


	8. 25 April, 1000 hours

Again, they spent the meeting discussing America’s disappearance. Throughout that time, England could feel several sets of eyes boring into him, could feel their concern, their pity, their shock. He fought the urge to squirm underneath the weight of their collective gaze. How were they expecting him to react: to break down or storm out of the meeting like yesterday? Well, he already had his mental crash, maybe that was it for the day. Canada wouldn’t say anything.

“We need to figure out what happened to him before too many other nations find out.” France paced the floor behind the line of chairs.

“Yes, we bloody well do. The irresponsible idiot.” England heaved a deep sigh and looked away from the apprehensive faces of the other nations sitting at the table. “I don’t know what else to try. I’ve even called his houses and apartments in more than half his states. Most of them several times, at least.”

Canada collapsed into a chair next to him, crossing his arms on the table and tucking his head in the bend of his elbow. “Between the two of us we’ve probably called all of them,” he said. England gave his shoulder a pat.

Germany cleared his throat. “Perhaps we need to contact America’s government, again, and see if we can find out what’s going on here. We also need to get back to--”

The echo of England’s fist against the table silenced Germany and the muttering. Despite his agitation, he kept his voice slow and deliberate. “Germany, this is getting us nowhere. I have contacted America’s bloody government no less than a dozen times. If I call again, they will likely contact my PM with a bloody cease and desist order. It would be bad enough if they merely inform him that I’ve been calling incessantly.” He could no longer resist the urge to pinch bridge of his nose.

France pulled out a chair to England’s left, and sat on its edge, staring at the far wall. “We don’t know if America’s government is keeping his location a secret or if they even knows where he is.” England had considered such thoughts more than he cared to admit and did not particularly like either one.

England heaved a sigh and collapsed back into the think cushioning of his chair. “He isn’t even answering his own mobile phone. Not when it rings, not texts, not voicemail. Nothing. I haven’t heard from him since noon four days ago.”

Letting his gaze flit around the room, twitchy, much like his stomach, England quickly lost track of the meeting. He was startled from his thoughts by a light pat to his shoulder. 

“England, I’m sorry.” Japan’s quiet voice broke the silence. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“Oh! Japan.” He sighed. “You didn’t disturb me at all. What was it you wanted?”

“You said America did not answer his phone for you?” Japan’s brows were knitted together in thought.

“Yes, that’s right. Why do you ask?” 

“It rings, yes?” Japan pressed. “Canada, you tried his phone, as well? And France?” They nodded.

“I tried to call and then message America last night. Ahem.” Japan paused, looking away for a moment. “About a quick game. His phone rang but he did not answer.”

“What are you getting at Japan?” Canada looked up again.

“America’s phone is on, and he does not answer it.” The three nations continue to stare at Japan, eyes wide.

“Japan?” The sharpness of France’s voice cut through the silence. “What do you mean?”

“America does not leave his voice or text messages unanswered. He does not leave his phone unanswered. Something is terribly wrong here. He loves communicating.” The affliction in Japan’s voice finally reached his eyes. “I am deeply concerned.”

“That’s what I’ve been saying for days now.” England threw his arms up in irritation. “Has no one been paying any bloody attention to me?”

“I am just putting words to what no one else wants to say.” 

England swallowed a growl deep in his throat. “Well, thank you, Japan, for your perplexing statement of the obvious. If America does not appear by the real meeting in his own country next month, then, perhaps, we should take matters into our own hands. I think that is what you are implying, is it not?”

“That is exactly what I meant.” Japan nodded.

“Well, then, that’s a motion and a second.” England muttered with a half-smile of thanks in Japan’s direction.

The nations remaining in the meeting all quickly agreed. England’s shoulders straightened. Constantly, he fought against the chill that ran up and down his spine. He would not give voice to his trepidation on America’s wellbeing. America did not just drop all ties to his friends and fellow nations. The boy would go stark raving mad without interaction from his companions, even though he did manage so many years of isolation. He could do so no longer.

Perhaps there was a very mundane excuse for his disappearance, and all this alarm and confusion was all a big misunderstanding. Deep down, England know that any explanation he could dream up was rubbish, and he could not chase that sinking feeling from his mind, no matter how hard he tried.

“could try to triangulate his location.” England had missed most of the conversation between Canada and Japan.

“You can do that, Japan?” Canada asked.

“Oh, yes. It is an experimental program though. America’s location has not been updated in several days.”

“Well,” Germany sighed, “I think we should suspend this little meeting until our formal meeting in America next month. And, I am sorry about your birthday, Arthur.”

The other nations nodded and mumbled in agreement.

“I second that.” France stood, brushing invisible lint off his suit, following Canada and Japan, still chatting about technology. He paused at England’s chair. “Well, Arthur, what do you say to getting a drink with me.” He slid over to England as he rose from his seat and attempted to snake an arm around his waist.

England evaded the gesture. “Frog, I’ve already had entirely too much to drink the last few days.” He did not mean to let that slip, even though he had every intention of drinking without France’s company. When he drank, he did not feel tense. England sighed and grabbed his briefcase, making no comment on France’s groping attempt. 

“You? Refusing a drink? Mon dieu. We are all worried, Arthur.” France gave him a quick pat on the ass. “Perhaps just as a bit of stress relief?”

England swatted the hand. “Just leave me alone.” Waving France away, he left him wide-eyed and gaping, and shuffled out of the meeting room.

“He did not even hit me,” France sputtered. “Canada you will tell me how Arthur is really fairing.”

Arthur gave a grim smirk to the elevator doors. Matthew would never tell.


	9. 25 April, Time Unknown

America transitioned erratically in and out of sleep. He dreamed he was burning alive and freezing to death. Walls expanded outward leaving him to be crushed by the weight of the bedding he slept in. The warm bed felt like the only safe place inside the metal room in the mountain where he had no business sleeping.

The multi-hued swirls of grey faded into a roiling mist and disappeared into hallucinations, dreams, visions, detached reality. Another beep would come and bring him medicated relief. Beeping came between dreams America could not remember. How much time passed between the beeps? Hours? Days? Years? They were pointless. Everything was a blur. He would twitch; breathing would become easier. 

America could tune it out when he willed himself to remain calm and concentrate solely on the bedding and pillows. He thrashed and mechanical beeping sped and increased in frequency. Drowning in cotton was better than the glacial lava flowing in his veins and nerve endings.

This was not happening. This was a dream. This was a movie. All America had to do was wake up. All he had to do was get up, turn off the television and it would all be over. But he could not move and there was no television to turn off.

\------------

Once, when America’s head was left merely in a fog, he attempted to sit up. The molten, icy pain coursing through his shoulders and back rendered the feat an unworthy effort. He could not make himself rise from the mattress, the only source of sanctuary in the cold metal that surrounded him. 

The room was dark. He glanced toward the window and could see nothing, as though a shroud sealed him from the world. He might see something if he ventured to the window. He didn’t dare. Leave the night alone, a voice spoke to him—Alfred’s own voice, one from the back of his mind, long since quieted amid the haze.

America shifted and nearly cried out as his muscles resisted. They felt clipped in some way. How could that happen? Such a procedure would require surgery more complicated than closing wounds to diminish the probability of infection and scarring or decrease blood loss. Few doctors over the course of his history could keep incisions open long enough to take more than a peek at his insides.

With another slight shift of muscles, the pain spread to America’s chest and constricted his breathing. Though he was no stranger to pain, he brought a hand up to his chest with a gasp and concentrated on filling his lungs with the tepid air in the metal room. He grappled with the fabric and realized that the garment fastened the wrong way. The material was solid along the front. He reached an arm around, but it hurt too much to check how the fastenings in the back worked, if there were any.

He shifted closer to the head of the bed and pulled a couple of pillows along with him. He stopped, faint from the burning pain in his back. Grabbing a corner of a light sheet, he balled it up and bit down hard. He piled pillows against the headboard and leaned into them, stopping to scream hoarsely into the ball of cloth, straining to stay as quiet as he could. Ignoring the tears streaming from his eyes, dampening the pillow. He settled against them and bit down harder, gritting his teeth into the cotton. Rarely had he experienced such pain, yet he had dressed his own hideous wounds in countless battles.

Quickly, without regard to the icy hot throb, he reached an arm around to his back, and leaned against the pillows so he did not have to support himself with trembling, tender muscles. His eyes squeezed shut against the black and white starburst flooding his vision, even behind his eyelids. He dried heaved as his left hand brushed up against his right shoulder blade, just over a scar from the Sioux Wars. He felt a nub of skin and muscle grafted to his shoulder blade. It was raised two or three inches.

He let his arm fall limp to his side, shifted and attempted the same action with his right arm, feeling his left shoulder blade. There was another numb. What the hell had they done to him? He thought as he finally released himself to the relentless wave of nausea and sunk back down into the pillows. This had to be a dream or a movie or a weird game that Kiku sent him. A beep sounded in the distance of his nausea and America fell into a forgetful sleep.

\------------

The next time America woke, a film of warm yellow light filtered through the window. His shoulders still throbbed, but he tired of remaining sedentary. He looked around and noticed the bedding had been changed. It smelled fresh, so he didn’t really care. He shifted to his side and flexed his shoulders. The nubs were still there; he could feel them. A beeping increased in frequency and he scanned the looking for the source. 

The door swished open and a small woman entered. Her wavy blonde ponytail swished and caught the sunlight as she dashed to the bed. “Oh, no. What have you done?” She set a firm hand on his lower back, pushing him against the mattress.

Alfred chocked back a scream as the waves of pain increased.

“Shush, shush.” She ran her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. “Just calm down.”

He groaned. “Who are you?! What the hell did you do to me?!” He would have resisted, cowered down into the bed, had she not pressed her fingers against a tender spot just below the two nubs of muscle.

“Never you mind that right now.” Her voice did not falter, and her hand shifted, sliding up and down his spine, purposefully as though she intended to count and recount his vertebrae. “You’re in pain.”

“Yes! No! Yes! I don’t care! Just tell me what’s going on,” he cried, pressing his face against the pillow, leaving damp spots.

“All in good time,” she sighed. “Just listen to me, alright?”

Alfred sunk farther into the bedding and whined. “Just tell me.” He let his words drag, unconcerned that if England had heard him, he would call him childish. He felt like a child, helpless and lost in the dark, despite the light filtering in from the window.

“You’re in pain,” she said.

“Of course, I’m in pain!” he groused.

“And you’re confused,” she continued despite his protests.

He growled. 

“I can help you.” She hummed. The more America listed to the Southern twang in her voice the calmer he felt. “You want that more. Don’t you?”

“I just wanna go home! I want Arthur! I want the pain to go away! I want someone to tell me what the hell happened to me! That’s all I want.” 

“I can do that. I can tell you what happened. I can,” she said. “But first I have to make the pain go away. You have to be good and cooperative.” She rubbed circles on his lower back and brushed her fingers along the nubs, softly this time. “Can you be good, so you can go home? Can you do that? Can you let me help the pain go away? Do you want that?”

He shifted his eyes away from the pillow and nodded. America’s eyes felt heavy again. He plopped his head back down.

“Good,” she drew out the word, low and soft.

From somewhere she produced a shiny round orb with markings that made it look like a little golden globe with all the continents, lacking colour. She held it in front of Alfred in a way that it caught the sunlight. She left it fall but held it by a small, gold chain. 

His eyes shifted involuntarily in her direction away from the little globe. She was seated just next to the bed on a wooden chair.

“Na-uh,” she whispered and clicked her tongue. “Not at me.”

His eyes drifted back to the orb, twisting on its chain.

“Now, you will have forgotten all about your pain by the time I finish my little story,” she said as she continued to twist the orb. 

“Once upon a time, there lived a woman with one son she loved very much. Their home was built between the woods and the sea, and as they had no neighbours, their house was very lonely. The mother kept the boy home for company.”

“Stupid story,” America muttered, his eyes blinked a moment, slipping to the window then back to the tiny world before him.

The woman sighed. “Hush, now. Just listen.”

He hummed his consent and watched the light catch on the striations of the globe. Already feeling calm, his muscles relaxing.

“Good, very good,” she said. “One night a storm came, and its winds blew the door open. The women shivered and feared something horrible would come for them. ‘Go shut the door’ she asked him, ‘I feel frightened.’”

The cadence of the woman’s voice took on that of a song. America found the glitter of the gold on the globe more interesting than the story. He watched it twist and twinkle. Slowly, he blinked his eyes until it was too much effort to keep them open. 

He remembered hearing of the boy’s adventure overcoming great challenges, gaining power and responsibility, and spending his life trying and never succeeding to make poor people rich, miserable people happy, bad people good—but never being able to be with the one he loved.

America’s consciousness faded as he listened to the story, lulled into a refuge of forgetfulness. His pain rippled to a dull throb that scratched at the back of his mind. He faded to sleep.


	10. 26 - 29 April

**26 April**   


England had returned home, slept, and woke to attempt normalcy. He drank tea and ate breakfast. He drove into London for work, had lunch in his office and worked some more, sneaking a sip of rum from his desk drawer at mid-day to fend against the silence of the staff and his intrusive thoughts. He returned home at the end of the day. He made himself dinner and tea. He read but did not remember. He attempted to call America’s home once more, but to no avail. He drank a glass or two (or three) of whatever bottle he grabbed first. He showered. He went to bed.

**27 April**

England woke, went about his day as before, but informed his secretary he would work from home until further notice. When asked if he had received prior approval, Arthur bit back that both he and his boss could bugger off. When the man asked him for a reason, claimed the office was too loud.

**28 April**

Arthur went shopping; he was low on groceries. And it was perfectly natural for the bags to clink as he walked. Of course, it was.

**29 April**

Arthur went shopping again. He miscalculated the needs of his cupboards and basement herb cabinets. Arthur drank to remember but forgot anyway. Japan called that evening and Canada. Whoever said ‘no news meant good news’ was the worst kind of bastard ever to live.


	11. 30 April, 1300

England dropped his pen and rubbed at his eyes and the bridge of his nose. He had read the same paragraph at least a dozen times. With a huff, he forced his gaze away from the documents in front of him.

Upon the conclusion of the informal meeting, England sequestered himself at home, mostly in his study. He received his work remotely. No one had seemed to find this unusual, but for the suddenness of his request; he often preferred the privacy of his own workspace, amid the comforts of aged carpeting, earl grey tea, and trophies of his good days—with his basement just beneath him as reassurance.

England stared out the window at his garden, unseeing. He stretched out over his desk with no concern for the documents resting there, if wrinkled he could reprint them later. Muted sunlight filtered in the windows through the evaporating rivulets of water. He drew an arm toward him and rested his head against it. With the other, he fidgeted with a toppled bottle of scotch on the far side of the desk, dry inside and long emptied of its contents.

Still no word from America. “Just like the bloody Revolution all over again.” He glanced to the side where a pixie hovered, scowling at him. “Oh, I know. It’s not the same at all. Still, it feels like he’s left me.” She crossed her arms. “If you’re going to keep looking at me like that you can just leave!”

England pushed away from the desk and trudged a nonsensical pattern around and about his study, his socked feet thumping and padding along the flooring—wood to rug, rug to wood and back again.

He could not talk to his Friends. He could not concentrate on his work.

He wasn’t worried about America. He really wasn’t. Still, this was highly unusual. He stopped trying to communicate with America altogether a several days ago. It was useless. There was nothing else left in his study—in his house—to clean. He was left restless and tense.

He stopped in front of an old bookcase, full and often neglected. He drew a set of keys out of his pocket. They were all just as old, just as worn as the glass enclosed bookcase. Not too often neglected; they always stayed free of dust. His finger traced the edge of the key. Enough. He missed hearing the precious click of the old lock as the grandfather clock struck the quarter hour.

He reached back behind a large collection of browning leather bound books and patted around until his fingers met resistance against a cylinder. Carefully, he pulled it out, leaving the books undisturbed, and re-locked the cabinet. Still as dust free as it was each time he removed it; he hugged it to his chest.

He opened the cylinder; the lid cast to the rug somewhere in the middle of the room, and rested it against his keyboard as he cleared his desk, quick but meticulous. He didn’t bother to re-file or keep them organized, just tidy. He took the old weathered documents out of their casing. Holding them steady on the desk with one hand, he pulled up a web browser with the other and retrieved a few aged baubles as paperweights as the page loaded a map of the United States of America. 

But what was he looking for? What was he even trying to do?

Out of the corner of his eye, he could still see Pixie. “I told you to stop looking at me!”

Pixie’s expression remained unchanged. “Oh fine. I admit it. You had a good idea. I just don’t know why you suggested it.”

It flew over to his mobile phone and hovered over it.

“But it’s not ring—“His phone buzzed to life in a combination of vibrations and rock music. “Oh.” He glared, as he scooped up the phone. “Hello Japan.” 

“Good day, England,” Japan said with an uncharacteristic sigh. “I am sorry, England. I have no news.”

“In truth, I didn’t expect you to have any after only a day.” He sank back against the soft leather of his desk chair. But he had hoped.

“I am just calling as you requested to update you on the status of—” Japan paused and cleared his throat. 

“I appreciate your efforts,” England replied. No need to force his friend to say things neither wanted to hear.

He traced his fingers over his centuries old map of America, along the coastal boarders, the mountains. Japan spoke again, voice becoming a sonorous vibration in England’s ear as the map bent his attention. Fingers shook and faltered, a single tear dropped at a spot nestled in the mountains. He scrambled in his pocket for a handkerchief and blotted the water away; the lines barely blurred.

“—And Estonia said that he is nearly finished with a new, improved beta version of...England, are you alright?” Japan asked when he heard a catch in England’s breath.

“Don’t worry about me Japan. I’m getting along.” England pressed the handkerchief to his eyes.

“Of course, England.” Japan became silent.

“Really, I am.” He continued to stare at the spot on the map.

“Very well, England.” Was that a huff he heard from Japan? Perhaps he should just release his friend from this painfully awkward conversation and let both of them get on with their days. “Well, Ja-Japan...I...I’m sure you mi-miss speaking to America about these technical things.”

Japan hummed and sighed again. “You do not respond to those subjects as he does, that is true. He will return, England.”

“Yes, of course!” England tore his eyes from the map. “Why wouldn’t he? We are just taking precautions.”

“Of course, England. We will find him.” The line became silent again.

Yes, it was definitely time to let Japan off the phone. “It was good hearing from you Japan. Thank you.”

“Have a pleasant day, England. Take care of yourself.” ‘Do not drink too much,’ England could fill in the silence in the space before the call officially ended.

His eyes wandered back to the map, and remained stationary as he pulled a bottle of whisky from a desk drawer.

No, this was nothing like the Revolution. During that phase, America wouldn’t shut up. He had made his presence known. As he did ever afterward.

England’s eyes never strayed from that antique map. He opened the bottle, poured two fingers worth into his emptied teacup, and downed it. Eyes tearing, he choked a breath and filled the cup nearly to the brim. He sipped at it, still staring at the map all the while.

This was all a terrible dream. A series of terrible dreams. He would wake up and Alfred would be right there. Right next to him. There all along. He made it for his birthday. He made it to the meeting. All of it. Of course, Alfred had sat next to him as he usually did. Of course he did.

No! All of that was a lie. And he isn’t dreaming. None of those things had happened.

He shouldn’t be so upset; he knew that. It had been only a little more than a week since Alfred had just ... not appeared. He couldn’t be missing. He certainly couldn’t be dead. He was a bloody nation for crying out loud.

Arthur slammed his cup with more force than intended, wincing at the sharp clank of the fine porcelain cup against its saucer, abused but unbroken.

This wasn’t right! He wasn’t worrying enough. He worried too much. He shouldn’t worry; it was just America. 

Blinking back something he refused to acknowledge, he fumbled blindly around the desk until his fingers once again found purchase against the whisky bottle. It took considerable exertion, but he peeled his eyes away from the map and drank straight from the bottle, and it went down so smoothly that time his eyes didn’t even water. They were already watery.

After a few delightful swallows, England pushed himself from the desk again; Scotch whisky clutched in one hand and map in the other. He stumbled out of his study.


	12. 1 May; 0258

England blinked through a blanket of haze to what state of consciousness he could grasp, floor at his back and ceiling directly above him. His body and head were warm; his feet and hands were cold. Dull light flickered. He looked around, though he could not sit upright. 

He was in the basement.

The pungent mix of herbs and smoke pervaded the basement. Runes littered the floor, the old map of America and England’s laptop occupied the middle of an extensive and elaborate magic circle. Just at his left shoulder lay a worn book of spells, the title in an ancient language that even he could no longer name.

What had he done?

A wave of nausea hit him with a jolt. England scrambled to his feet, tripping on his black robe in a desperate fight to cast it aside. He threw his hands over his mouth and made a mad dash up the stairs to the house. He needed out, unconcerned whether the clenching of stomach his was due to panic or hangover.

In his haste, England stumbled up the topmost step and his stomach finally gave in and seized. He jerked backwards and hit his head on the basement door as the grandfather clock struck the hour. At the second ring, he fell down to his knees, heaving once more. Just after the third strike of the clock, England’s head met the tile of his kitchen floor and a dark glow of indigo and garnet blanketed his consciousness.


	13. 30 April; 1130

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Going back in time a bit.

America woke to a persistent dig at his shoulder, the lingering smell of tea fading from his unconsciousness. “Cut it out, sweetie.” He shifted, burying his head in the pillow clutched against his chest. He was poked again, harder this time. “Gimme five more minutes, honey. That’s all I need.” He resisted, unwilling to be awake and alert yet—reluctant to acknowledge the needling edginess from anomalies in his environment. The pillowcase and bedding didn’t seem quite right, and the temperature of the room was a bit warm. The hands still rocking his shoulder were too small to be England’s, the palm too narrow and the fingers too short. Maybe it was his imagination. “Seriously,” he whined and nuzzled the pillow. “Just five, babe.”

“I swear, if you ‘baby’ or ‘honey’ me one more time then I will kick your fat ass outta that bed faster than you can twitch.” A female voice, with a sweet Southern drawl, growled out at him, and yanked the covers away. 

A loud roll of laughter echoed in the hallway.

“What the hell?” America grumbled, voice hoarse from sleep and disuse. He sat up and hugged a pillow to his chest as though it would provide some sort of protection; his lip protruded. He stared in quiet shock at the petite Southern girl. Her soft, wavy, blonde ponytail falling over her shoulder did nothing to soften her glare in the slightest.

Agnes Clark stepped through the door, stifling the last of her chuckling with cough, closed fist to her lips. “Smart Ass meet Ace. Finally.” She muffled the last word with her hand.

“Stop calling me that!” The girl, Ace, cast a quick glance over her shoulder at Agnes.

“Right. Okay, my work here is done.” Agnes glared at them both in turn. “Don’t kill each other.” She limped back out of the room and the door whooshed closed behind her.

The memories of his kidnapping had rushed back through America’s mind and he sunk back against the pillows. “My head hurts.”

“Yeah, I imagine it does. You’ve been that bed for days.” 

“Days?” America blinked.

“Yeah.” She nodded. “You should be feeling better now. So, if you lay back down, I will throttle you. Now get your ass out of bed and go eat. I’m not gonna heat it back up for you.”

He grunted as his rose to his feet and shuffled over to the table, smelling food for the first time since he woke—hamburger and fries. He dug in immediately. The burger and fries were both the home-made kind, though the burger was smaller than he would have liked and the fries reminded him of the kind he got when he visited England. But it was food and he didn’t really care.

He felt cool hands on his shoulders and dropped his fork.”What the hell are you doing?” 

She tsked at him. “Examining your... injuries. You got a lot of scars. Some of them look pretty old.”

This little lady was from somewhere around Atlanta, Georgia. He resisted a growl. His head still felt fuzzy. He picked up his burger and finished it a few quick bites. “Yeah, well I’ve seen a lot of action,” he mumbled around a mouthful.

“You don’t look old enough to have some of these scar up quite like this.” She traced a finger over his right shoulder blade. It stung. He twitched—that never happened before. Time to break contact.

He stood and looked down at her. “Well I have, and I am.” She barely reached his shoulders. “What do you do here, Ace?” He straightened out his shoulders and stood to his full height. 

Ace rolled her eyes, not as intimidated as America expected her to be. “Oh hell, not you too,” she grumbled.

“What else do you want me to call you, then? Why am I here?!” He reached over to he, but before he could blink, she grabbed his arm and the room flipped. His vision filled with dancing black and silvery dots and when it cleared, he was on his ass, looking up into her hazel eyes. What was with these women taking him by surprise? There were dozens of male nations who had a harder time of throwing him around. Did they have pesky younger brothers or something? She sure did that with nice form, though. He shook his head. “Wow.”

“Oh shit! Mr. Jones, I’m so sorry!” she gasped. “I didn’t hurt you at all, did I?” 

Her sudden concern was shocking as the sudden change in altitude and America had to shake his head. “Nope. That was awesome!” He blinked up at her, and couldn’t help the dopey grin that spread across his face. She looked away, his attempt to reassure her rendered ineffective. The peppery lights quickly diminished and he rose to his feet as his equilibrium righted itself. “You’ll have to do that again sometime. But, I really wanna know why I’m here.”

“Clark was right. You really are crazy.”

“Cassandra? Eaton? Really, come on. Tell me what’s going on,” he whispered. Despite the fresh wave of foreboding punching him in the gut, he couldn’t help but trust this small woman even though she just threw him to the floor as effortlessly as Japan might have done.

“Clark warned me about your little games.” She turned toward him once more with a sad smile. “Call me Cassie.” She sighed. “I’m your nurse. That’s all. Just a nurse.”

“Right.” A nurse who knows martial arts? “You remind me of a couple people. You’re no normal nurse. I want answers Cassie.”

“People can have hobbies can’t they?” She shrugged. Again, she evaded his questions. Not surprising.

America raised an eyebrow at her. “Sure. Right.”

“Well, then.” She picked up his dishes. “Do whatever you can that you usually do in the mornings with what’s here. There are clothes in that dresser there.” She pointed to the far side of the room near the bed. “I can get you anything you need. Just let me know. Be dressed and on one of those machines by time I come back.” She pointed to the exercise equipment on the far side of the small room. “If you’re good, I might toss you ‘round again, if you aren’t good I’ll toss you ‘round again anyway.” She winked.

America laughed. “I look forward to that.”

“Such a weirdo,” she grumbled. “Be sweating by the time I get back, you hear me!?”

“That’s harder than you think.” He groaned, after the door closed behind her. He pouted and stomped over to the sink to brush his teeth. His shoulders felt funny, but he shrugged that off as shock from being thrown to the floor by a human.

He whined at the sink. There was no mirror. He spat the toothpaste out and huffed again. He figured he might as well do as she told him. There wasn’t anything else for him to do, but sit around. He hopped up on a treadmill and started running. 

America breathed deeply with the freedom of movement trapped though he was in a space roughly the equivalent of a very small studio apartment. He wished it had been a very small studio apartment with t least a separate bathroom. It was all one open space that distinguished itself to feel like a luxurious prison cell or a hospital room. He quickened his pace, sparing a glance out the barred widows to the tree lined mountains. Definitely more like a prison.


End file.
